On the couch
by tha-artemisrox
Summary: A fluffy little piece of domesticity between Sherlock and John.  Contains snuggling.


A/N: A short ficlet written for a fluffy prompt. the request was sleeping on each other, a personal favorite of mine, as well as domesticity.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or it's characters, I am just a fan with her slash goggles permanently attached.

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Sherlock was, well there was no other word for it, sulking.

The incident in the pool with Moriarty meant that Mycroft had pulled a combination of "I'm your older brother." and "I have to make sure that there are no more explosions." to effectively keep Sherlock cooped up in 221b Baker street. Not for lack of escape attempts on Sherlock's behalf but they were mostly just protests as he always allowed the men Mycroft employed to escort him back once he had obtain whatever little item he had claimed to have gone out for. They were now overstocked on milk.

With a huff he dropped down on the couch next to John, it was rather late and John had resorted to watching some old b-grade scifi film on tv since Sherlock's pacing made any attempts to focus out of the question. With his legs stretched out in front of him John noticed Sherlock seemed to still be filled with restless, coiled up, energy and nothing to focus it on.

"The man in the rubber mask is a classically trained actor."

John glanced at him sideways. "That so? You recognize the actor then?"

"Nope." Sherlock tucked his hands under his arms and shuffled closer on the couch. "Bored."

"Yeah I know." John sighed. "Me too, this movie's pretty awful… want me to turn it off?"

"Don't bother, I can tell you the actors' histories if you like?"

As the film dragged on at the slow pace that badly written films do, Sherlock's posture gradually relaxed until he had his head resting on John's shoulder and his legs drawn up on the couch. John reasoned that it was necessary to try and move Sherlock at this point, go to bed, but decided it was not worth the effort.

Eventually the film ended and the programing turned to re-runs of some mid eighties sitcom. John shifted, trying to resettle himself into a more comfortable position, but was impeded by Sherlock nuzzling closer.

"Sherlock…"

"Hnnnnm."

"Sherlock this-this isn't very comfortable."

"Nnnngh, then move." The taller man made no attempt to accommodate such an action and simply hung loosely and John maneuvered them into a more comfy position.

"So… this is nice." He said as Sherlock was now thoroughly draped across him.

"John… you should know this isn't my area of expertise so, can we just not talk?"

John looked down of the mop of curly dark hair on the top of Sherlock's head since that was all he could see from their current placement.

"That sounds… fine."

With the last of his energy John muted the tv and let the remote drop from his fingers.

* * *

The first thing John noted when he woke up was that he was too warm and sore and stiff. The second thing he noticed was that his consulting detective room-mate was currently snuggling against him with his long limbs possessively wrapped around John's torso. Not like John could talk with his own hand splayed against Sherlock's lower back. They must have been really tired last night. Or drunk, but he sincerely doubted Sherlock had spiked their drinks, even out of boredom.

John started to sit up, causing Sherlock to tighten his arms around him.

"I thought you didn't do the touching thing." He mumbled around a yawn, christ he needed a coffee. Sherlock mumbled something into his stomach, breath warming up the skin through his shirt. "What was that?"

Turning his head Sherlock repeated himself with a lazy draw. "Well I didn't do the teamwork thing either but you've rather effectively changed that habit, I must say."

John snorted and carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair absentmindedly. "You want some breakfast?"

Sherlock leaned into the touch slightly. "I'm not that hungry really." his brow furrowed for a moment, John marveled at the fact that there was ever a time that Sherlock's brain actually had trouble working, when he was sleepy apparently. "Do you usually make someone breakfast after you sleep with them?"

John smacked him with the union jack pillow.

"Don't say it like that!" he still smiled. "But yes actually."

Sherlock stretched as much as their tangle allowed. "Mmmmmm…. never mind what I said before, breakfast sounds good right about now."

It should feel odd, John thought, waking up like this should feel awkward or strange or any number of words suggesting it was abnormal. Instead it seemed far too natural for him to take Sherlock's arms and move the both of them until he could stand, their hands lingering for a moment before he padded into the Kitchen. Sherlock watched John carefully, assessing, as the man bustled about the kitchen in a large woolen jumper. His eyes darted around, taking in several minute details of John's posture and motions, before he closed them and sat back seemingly reaching a conclusion.

When John handed Sherlock a plate of scrabbled eggs and a fork accompanied with a mug of tea, Sherlock preferred tea, on the table and took a seat similarly equipped next to him Sherlock finally broke their comfortable silence.

"This… is nice." he twirled the fork around the plate.

John finished his mouthful before replying. "I was worried I used too much pepper but-"

"That's not what I meant."

John stopped and looked at Sherlock who seemed rather uncomfortable, clearing his throat just like back at the pool.

"I'm saying that this morning… It's- uh- good."

John paused before smiling slowly and going back to his eggs. Sherlock seemed satisfied with this response and swiftly drank some tea from the mug.

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After that it became an unspoken agreement that no matter what state the night before put them in they would have breakfast together. When Sherlock made it it usually meant cereal or toast made with the stove fire directly. John noted that more often they would fall asleep curled together on the couch, which he didn't really have a problem with and Sherlock didn't seem to mind so who was he to protest.

Then one morning Sherlock had been in the kitchen with a piece of toast held above the stove with tongs, leaning his hip against the bench, and John walked over to him on autopilot since his head was still a bit fuzzy.

"Morning." Sherlock greeted him without looking up.

"Good morning." and then John leaned up and kissed Sherlock's cheek before continuing to the fridge. It wasn't until he had his hand on the orange juice that his brain seemed to catch up and he had to fumble to avoid dropping it.

"That… I didn't mean to do that."

Sherlock didn't even turn around, tone unconcerned. "Seemed pretty deliberate to me."

John crossed the kitchen and turned Sherlock by the currently unoccupied arm, his other hand still holding the toast above the flame.

"I'm not gay." John said carefully.

"Well neither am I, really." Sherlock said cooly while maintaining his eye contact.

"And you're… fine with this?"

"It wasn't objectionable, no."

John frowned but Sherlock held his gaze, one eyebrow raised in challenge. John never could resist a challenge.

The two of them stood in the kitchen, John with one hand tangled in the hair at the base of Sherlock's neck and Sherlock grabbing blindly behind him to shut off the stove, toast laying forgotten on the table top. Their kiss was too short, too clumsy, but when they parted only seconds later you would swear from their expressions that they'd just had the best snog of their lives.

The mornings after continued in a very similar manner, the only difference being that they would start from the same bed and afterwards, on the couch, John would check his emails on his laptop with Sherlock's legs across his lap as the detective read the paper.

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Fluff. that's all really. Read and Review!


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